Sanguinem Funesta Praeteritum
by WetSquid62
Summary: A dark story about the childhood of Robert Ewell. Written for Year 10 English assignment. Dedicated to The Lord of the Swill Bucket.


**Sanguinem Funesta Praeteritum**

_Inspired by "To Kill A Mockingbird" by Harper Lee_

Robert Ewell laid in a foetal position on the leafy floor of Peterman Forest, the decaying foliage and midnight air complimenting the sounds of sobbing. Sitting on a small stone in front of him, was a human skull surrounded by freshly-picked flowers. He knew he had never been liked by anyone of Maycomb nor Peterman, and with his humiliation after the events of the trial, he knew he would only be further ostracised. It was with these thoughts that he was unwillingly led through the memories of his childhood.

It was summer in Peterman, and the heat of midday made itself apparent in the form of sweat running down a young Bob's forehead as he lined up a hunting rifle with a small beer bottle, a few yards from where he was standing.

"Yall shoot like ya got no eyes Bob!"

A drunken, angry voice rang out, accompanying the crack from the rifle and the flapping of wings. A feeling of dread swept over Bob, as he realised his stepfather had managed to haul himself out of the dilapidated, cave that was the Ewell family house. Smacking Bob to the ground, Abraham took the gun, and aimed at a young mockingbird that had fallen out of its nest.

"No, don't!"

Pleaded Bob, but it was too late, the bird was already dead and the killer was laughing maniacally. Abraham turned around, and smacked Bob with the butt of the rifle, drawing blood with the sheer force of the hit. Sobbing, Bob tried to crawl away, but his father only perceived this as a sign of weakness, which infuriated him even more. After several kicks to the stomach and head, the drunkard decided that he had more interesting things to do than watch his useless son whimper, so he turned around and headed towards the town.

"Yall are one bastard of a step-son. No child o mine would ever be s'weak as you"

And with that last emotional attack, Bob was left alone, crying in a small pool of sweat, alcohol and blood. Dragging himself back to the house, he saw his mother, Elizabeth, running towards him with a towel. Mopping the blood and sweat off his brow, Elizabeth escorted Bob into the house, reeking of alcohol and filth as it ever did. His mother seemed to be the only person who cared about him at all which meant the world to Bob, as she was the only family he had left. His real father had died when Bob was only 6 months old, murdered by a gang of vicious niggers whilst he was out hunting in the woods. He had always been taught to hate the Negroes, and when he found out how his real father died, his hate only grew stronger. Abraham was of coloured descent as well, and his abusive behaviour only served to solidify the concept that all blacks were violent and destructive. Satisfied with her effort bandaging, Elizabeth spoke softly to Bob.

"You don't have to worry about your stepfather anymore sweetie. I've had enough of his drunk ass in my household, and he's not the man he used to be."

Planting a kiss on Bob's forehead, she retreated back to the kitchen, preparing the night's meal. Come dinner though, there was no sign of Abraham. Bob figured he was either out hunting or drinking himself stupid, or probably both. The rest of the night continued without event, save for the arrival of Abraham in the early hours of the morning. Stumbling into the house, Abraham made his presence known with a loud belch that had the potential to awaken the entire neighbourhood. Leaving his hunting rifle and overcoat in a pile on the floor, he began to make his way towards the kitchen to try and find dinner. Failing to find any worthy morsel, he proceeded up the stairs much like a one-legged cat would, and somehow, managed to get to Elizabeth's room without stumbling over his own feet.

Ringing out like gunshots, verbal assaults started pouring from the mouths of Bob's parents. Arguments like this were always a nightly tradition within the Ewell household, but Bob felt something different about this night's. Bob, unable to handle the growing worry within him anymore, decided to sneak out of bed and see what was happening upstairs. Then, the arguing stopped with a muffled shriek, followed by an eerie silence, one which Bob was unaccustomed to hearing at this early hour. After what seemed like forever, a noise disturbed the silence; a single drop of blood fell from upstairs and onto Bob's face. Not wasting a second, he grabbed the hunting knife out of his father's overcoat, and rushed towards the bedroom.

A panorama of atrocity embraced the young child's eyes, as the light from several candles played upon the macabre scene in front of him. Bob's mother, the only person he loved who loved him back, lay upon the floor, stone dead, in a pool of her own blood. The same blood that coats the broken bottle of beer, held by Abraham Ewell. Before Abraham could react, Bob was already on top of him, pinning him to the ground with otherworldly strength.

"You monster!" was all Bob could say.

Bob raised the knife above his head, Abraham was pleading now, but his cries fell upon ears deaf with sheer rage. Then the knife came down, planting itself firmly into the neck of Abraham. Vital fluid poured from the wound like honey from a jar, but Bob had not quelled his bloodlust yet. Again and again, the knife repeated it's tastings of human flesh, each lick yielding even more blood than the last. Sobbing in a collective pool of his mother's and step-father's blood, Bob finally collected himself, and licked the blood off his lips. The bodies needed to be relocated to a place where no-one would find them. He decided would take them to where he felt most safe. He would take them to the forest.


End file.
